These Violent Delights
by mybarricadeboys1
Summary: The real reason Gabriel Enjolras doesn't want anything to do with Laurent Grantaire is something he will never admit. Wow, I suck at summaries. Enjolras X Grantaire, rated T to be safe. Please review
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is less of a chapter and more of a little preview, 'cause I'm lazy like that. If you like, please review and I will write more! **

**Disclaimer: It's pretty unlikely that I own Les Mis. In fact, I'd go so far as to say it's impossible.**

Paris was too quiet that Friday night, even with the sound of cars and partying teenagers and the everlasting life of the city drifting in through Enjolras' window. He lay on his bed and ran his fingers back and forth through his curly hair, digging his fingernails into his scalp in frustration. He couldn't sleep, he could never sleep. His brain wouldn't let him. He thought too much.

He thought _way _too much about the noises coming from the rooms of his flatmates. Or Courfeyrac's room, specifically. At least Combeferre and Colette were pretty discreet. Why couldn't Courf bite a pillow, or something?

Growling curses under his breath, Enjolras got up, grabbed his faded red military jacket from the peg by his door, shoved his feet into his Converse and crept through the darkened flat and down the stairs into the fresh, cool Paris night. He walked the streets whenever he couldn't sleep – which was always. He loved to remind himself of the reason he was fighting for humanity, how beautiful the world, especially his beloved France, was, and how much it deserved to be saved from the greed of men.

Tonight, his feet led him to the door of his favourite haunt, the Cafe Musain. He wandered up to the door, not expecting any life to stir inside this late at night. But to his surprise, the lights from upstairs still glowed into the cool, dark night, and the door was open. Walking through, Enjolras found that the ground floor was dark and still, but the light shone through underneath the closed door at the top of the landing. Taking the creaking wooden steps two at a time, he pushed the door open gently.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: So, I get one review and suddenly, part two! I'm really hyper right now so this...chapter? (IDK what to call it) got wrote pretty darn fast. Enjoy, and write me more reviews because I live for them **

**Disclaimer: I really, really doubt that I own Les Miserables. I mean, seriously.**

Grantaire looked up from his glass as Enjolras came in. He knew it was him immediately. He'd memorised the sound of his footsteps, the way he swung the door open confidently and slid gracefully into his usual chair near the window. He looked at Grantaire from beneath his messy flop of gold curls.

"What are you doing here? It's past midnight. This place should have closed up."

When Grantaire spoke, his words didn't slur. He'd gone beyond being totally smashed by now; left the haze behind as he often did. His head would be clear now for an hour at least, before he blacked out.

"Musichetta gave up and left me here. I doubt she trusts me to lock up, but I think she's past caring."

"Huh."

Grantaire spun his glass around to avoid looking at him. It clattered to the table and rolled off the edge; but before Grantaire could fumble for it, long, graceful fingers had snagged it and brought it back up.

"...Nice reflexes."

"Thanks."

Enjolras got up, walking to the window with that familiar, impatient pace. Leaning against the frame, he crossed his legs and began tapping a light, hurried rhythm on his knee, gazing out into the starry darkness of night-time Paris.

Grantaire took him in with his hearting beating faster, slamming against his ribcage as it always did. His eyes grazed the long, graceful limbs, the way he held himself, so poised, still, like a lion ready to pounce. He began to mentally sketch him, his fingers tracing the image onto the surface of the table, as Enjolras' fingers darted into his pocket, brining out a roll of paper and tobacco. Nimble fingers quickly rolled the cigarette, and Grantaire heard curses as the object of his affection patted his pockets, evidently looking for a lighter.

He walked over, tripping over the chair and whacking his hip bone on a table. "Here," he said, taking off the necklace he always wore. Unscrewing one half of the small silver capsule, he revealed the little lighter, flicking the wheel and grinning as the spark caught. It was the most reliable lighter he'd ever owned.

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. "Your necklace is a lighter?"

"Uh-uh."

"That's cool," he said, taking the lighter gently from his fingers and lighting up. Grantaire shivered as skin brushed skin.

"So," he said in a forced effort to make conversation as Enjolras handed the lighter back. "What are you doing out so late?"

"I couldn't sleep. Courfeyrac was making a lot of noise. I didn't exactly want to go in there and tell them to shut up."

"Yeah," said Grantaire, grinning and shaking his head. "Me neither. So you came here?"

"Well, I was just walking and I kind of turned up here. Force of habit, I guess."

Grantaire nodded, head down. He was suddenly painfully aware of the fact the Enjolras was right there, next to him. He could feel him breathing, the ghost of his elbow moving next to his shoulder.

He looked over and had a strange, unhappy thought. If Enjolras turned his head, they would be close enough to kiss. But he would never turn his head.

Enjolras blew out the smoke in a flowing plume of light grey and glanced over at the dark haired cynic.

"Um," said Grantaire stupidly. His mind was clouded again. Enjolras' breath came out in short bursts, his chest rising and falling as he looked at Grantaire.

"What...what are you doing here, anyway? You never told me..."

"I...guess I just never went home. Didn't want to. It feels safer here."

Their lips were so close...and then it was gone, maybe it was never there, maybe it was just another stupid drunken dream. The door slammed behind him and Grantaire was left wonder, just as he was, surely..._What the hell was all that?_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I love you, awesome reviewer person, so here's the next chapter! I was planning on swapping from R to Enjolras in each chapter anyways, so it's no problem. I'm glad you're enjoying it!**

**Disclaimer: I don't own any part of Les Mis. ****Apart from I own Aaron Tveit. A little bit.**

Enjolras leant against the cold brick and sighed; hitting his head on the wall behind him as he tried to get his head around what had just happened. Suddenly, he'd just felt so close to Grantaire...closer than he ever had before. And it frightened him.

No-one who knew Enjolras would ever say that he liked Grantaire – tolerated him, maybe. He was just so...apathetic. And almost constantly miserable. And even obnoxious at times. Enjolras just couldn't understand someone who didn't want to do _anything, _anything but sit and drink his life away and complain loudly; it intrigued him more than anything. He felt like he finally had the reason he was secretly so fascinated by him – Grantaire was a challenge. Enjolras could get almost anyone to agree with him, but not Grantaire. He'd just sit there and roll his eyes, say something like: _We're all going to die in the end anyway, so what's the point?_

Enjolras grinned to himself and then shivered. _No. _This couldn't be happening. He couldn't be...not _Grantaire..._

He bowed his head, cheeks flushing. How could he be ashamed of the things he was feeling? He went to rallies for gay rights almost every week, damn it. But at the same time, he couldn't help but remember what his father would say, what he _had _said, and how his brothers had agreed with him...and how scared Enjolras himself had always felt. He'd never felt scared about anything but that. Memories of being beaten up on street corners and being too ashamed to admit why filled his head. So many doubts filled his head...

His mother had been the only one in his family he could ever talk to. When his older brothers ran outside to play football and rugby with his father, and Enjolras had stayed inside, his mother would sit and read with him, play whatever he liked, and always defended him when his father asked why he preferred to write or draw than play sport with his brothers. When she died, it felt like there was no-one left in the world who knew him. His father and brothers were a bunch of misogynistic, racist, homophobe idiots that Enjolras wanted nothing to do with. He hadn't seen them in three years, but their opinions still frightened him so much that he denied who he was. And he hated himself for being so weak and stupid.

Checking his watch, he realised that his flatmates would soon be up. It would soon be a new day, and he'd better get home and keep up the pretence that he was sleeping and eating enough so Combeferre didn't worry. It was getting exhausting, but it was necessary.

Creeping up the stairs and wincing when the sound of his key in the lock seemed to echo all around the building, Enjolras let himself in as quietly as he could and slipped into bed as the sun began to peek over the horizon.


End file.
